Fire and Smoke
by Teenage-Twi'lek
Summary: What most people don't realize is that when you change one aspect of a tale, it produces a shotgun-esque effect. At a glance, only a few things change as a result. Down the road, however, more and more things differ from the original. This is is the story of one such change.
1. Chapter 1

**Woohoo! Finally, the Hunger Games story arrives. Took a looooong time, but I'm feelin' pumped! **

** -Teenage Twi'lek**

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No one talks as we leave the mine. All of us are tired. We all work from early morning till dusk for our survival. Those of us with larger families, like me, often start at dawn. We trudge out and into the brisk twilight, each diverting toward their respective routes. I walk slowly towards my residence, being fueled by the desire to see my family. Only me and my brother survived the fire. As we had lain in the grass, in shock, watching our home burn to the ground with our parents inside, a complete stranger had found us and taken us in. I wandered slowly through the Seam, trekking a path toward sleep. I reach the ramshackle building and open the door, only to be tackled by a small shape. My younger brother slams into me, almost knocking me down.

"Valen!" my younger brother Ather shouts joyously. Ever since the last mine explosion, which claimed several miner's lives, he has repeated the greeting at my safe return each night. Mr. Reese, whom was the kind soul that had taken us in, had been in the mine at the time of the explosion, and had ironically inhaled to much dust and smoke leaving him prone to full body spasms and massive cough attacks. As a direct result, it became my responsibility to work in the mines (at only 15) as it was 'unsafe' for him to work with such a condition. I look over his shoulder at our self-assigned guardian, the man who had saved me and my brother from the aftermath of the fire. He is sitting in his ancient rocking chair, smiling at the affection displayed by my brother. My brother releases the death grip he has on me and takes a few steps back. I ruffle his hair and shoo him to bed. I pat Mr. Reese on the back and trudge to my room. The rest of the week goes by as usual. I wake, eat, leave for the mine, and then return before night claims the land. It is not until Sunday that things change. Sunday is we miners only day off. Sundays and reaping day, which is tomorrow.

I wake up early, kiss my brother on the forehead, lingering a moment by his bed, before departing. I grab my pair of knives and walk to the glade. The only way out of this hell hole we call a district. As I walk through the tall grass, I overhear talking. I lower myself into the grass and crawl slowly toward the sound. I finally see the speakers. A man with dark hair and fair skin is sitting with a girl with brown hair in a braid, eating bread and talking. I recognize one of them immediately, and it brings back memories. Flames spewing out of open windows. Lying on a wooden table, snow being piled on my back. A lady with graying hair administering to my plethora of burns, the younger of her two daughters helping, the older leaving the house in a hurry. The girl was Katniss Everdeen, daughter of the Seam's healer. Leaving only Gale Hawthorne as the man sitting next to her, as I knew he was her hunting partner. I crawled away, and under the fence, and out into the freedom of the woods. I returned to District 12 late in the afternoon. Three rabbits and a squirrel for my troubles, I walked carefully toward the Hob, scanning for any peacekeepers that might apprehend me for illegally hunting. Having successfully avoided any unwanted attention, I sold my animals for some supplies, saving the squirrel for dinner. I spy Katniss walk in, her own wares to sell. Nodding to her, I exit, trudging back home. Dinner is special. Due to my working in the mine, I rarely have time to hunt, lending to the Sunday tradition of having wild meat of some sort. There is no friendly chit-chat at the table; after all, tomorrow is the Reaping. We go to bed early, praying for good luck tomorrow. Fate is never so kind.

Morning comes, and Ather, Mr. Reese, and I get ready. It is a slow and laborious task. I dress in the nicest things I own. A pair of dark pants, black socks, a pair of leather boots, and matching black button-up shirt. I keep the sleeves down. This will be my last year of being eligible for the games, and my brothers first. He doesn't show it, but deep down, I know that he is terrified. Any sensible person would be. We join the crowds of children on the way to the reaping grounds. I give Ather a hug before we separate into our age groups. After we sign in, we possible tributes huddle together in our friend groups. I see the clock on the Justice Building strikes two, our Mayor Undersee steps up and recounts the history of Panem, and everything leading to the Hunger Games. In the last seventy-three years, we have had two victors, only one of which is still alive; a drunkard by the name of Haymitch Abernathy. Upon finishing his speech, the mayor presents Effie Trinket, our District escort. She waltzes on stage, wearing a ping wig and matching dress. She ends her brief speech on the honor of representing District 12 with, "Happy Hunger Games, and may the odds be _ever_ in your favor!" With a, "Ladies first!" she hightails it toward the girls bowl and plucks out a name. She returns to the podium and speaks loudly, "Primrose Everdeen."

I instantly realize what will happen. Call it a gift, but I have always been intuitive, and no longer than three seconds later my suspicions are confirmed when we hear a desperate scream. "I volunteer!" Katniss, Primrose's sister, screeches, before repeating it again more clearly. "I volunteer as tribute." Her little sister protests, but is hoisted up by a towering dark-haired individual whom, without a doubt, is Gale. Katniss strides up to the stage, attempting to hide her terror. She mounts the stage, and after a lame joke from Effie, stands stock still, staring into space. A hand reaches into the air, presenting three fingers to Katniss, an ancient sign of respect. The motion is echoed until everyone in the square is saluting the brave girl. As if it is a curse to distract the cameras from, Effie clops in her ridiculous heels over to the boys bowl, and roots around before tugging out another piece of paper that will banish someone into the oblivion of the Capitol's game. She steps up to the podium and reads.

"Valen Fell." I start, knowing that this could mean the end of any chances for my family's survival. I step through the parting crowd to the walkway that seals my fate. I see Ather sobbing, and I nod to him, a silent affirmation that everything will be alright. I walk up to the stage and, at the behest of Effie, shake hands with my only anchor to home. The only reason I am still alive, whatever magic the Everdeen family holds, I believed in it. It had saved me from what should have been fatal burns, from not being able to help provide for Ather, and later, Mr. Reese. Effie raises our arms, and presents us as the victors from District 12. We are taken into the Justice building and into separate rooms. A few minutes later, the door open and Mr. Reese as well as Ather walk in.

"Five minutes." A peacekeeper calls, before shutting the door. I embrace Ather and then Mr. Reese as we sit in silence. No words necessary. Ather pulls out something.

"Will you take this as your token?" He asks, presenting me with a silver locket, the very same locket our mother was wearing when her cadaver was found in the shambles of our former house. I nod, a tear rolling down my cheek. I give them one last hug as the peacekeeper opens the door and orders them to leave. I dawn the locket and, at the behest of the guard, follow him out and toward the train that will ferry us closer to our doom.

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**So, yeah...been off the radar. All ninja-like. Anyway, sorry for not writing anything in almost four to five months. I have been feeling blasé as of late and I know that should be no excuse. I have firmly decided to get serious as a Fanfiction writer and will try to update every week (at latest, every two weeks). I will try to post new chapters on Wednesdays, but cant guaranty it. I may, over some weekend, fix my _Bird of Death_ story due to its obvious grammatical and spelling errors. Any-who, if you are reading this, you...are...AWESOME! Read and Review please, it will literally make my week.**

**-Teenage Twi'lek**

**P.S. Guaranty...really...where are we, Guatemala? Chillin' with the iguanas? Eating guacamole? English language, I prithee, why dost thou jumble my brain with incomprehensible spelling rules.**


	2. Chapter 2

**Hey! Back with chapter two...missed my first deadline though. I will continue to try and update every Wednesday, despite this failure. Anywaaaaaay...read, review, and most importantly, enjoy!**

**Dislaimer: I do not own the Hunger Games, as I am not Suzanne Collins. If I were, I would be rich and I would not be writing fanfiction.**

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I had never seen a train on the tracks before. It is sleek and silver. It looks like some abomination the capitol would conceive of for the games. Windows dot the side of it, every few feet. Katniss stands on the other side of Effie, whose bright pink hair looks alien in the surroundings I was accustomed to. My fellow tribute looks angry more than scared, despite where this _thing_ is taking us to. A set of doors hiss open as we approach, but there is no one behind them. There is no end to the Capitol need to create useless inventions. Why would someone need a door to open by its self?

Effie waltzes in, spewing praise over everything from the carpet to the wall panels. After that she monologues about the loveliness of the train, and that she had forgotten how civilized that Capitol was (after less than one day). She leads Katniss and me to our respective rooms. With plush carpets, a four post bed, a huge oaken vanity, and closets of clothes, I had never seen so much money anywhere, much less in one room. We are given an hour to relax before dinner. I take a fast shower, and am genuinely pleased that there is hot water. In the seam, we had to boil water over a fire to have any hot water. The walking wig then, after retrieving us from our quarters, guides us to the eating compartment. We had just sat down around a small table, when supper is served. The feast comes in courses, and it seems to never end. I eat as much as I can, as I have never had a meal of such quality or quantity.

"At least you two have decent manners," Effie remarks as the first course draws to a close. "The pair last year ate everything with their hands. Barbaric, they were. It ruined my digestion." After that, Katniss made it her sworn duty to eat everything "savagely", as the last years tributes were starved kids from the Seam who would never have had a guaranteed meal. After stuffing ourselves to the brim, we depart for yet a different car to watch the recaps of the Reapings. There are a few that I note, a brute of a boy from District 2, nothing unusual there, and his partner; a small girl with a terrifying smirk. There is a sly red-head from 5. I smirk at the reaping from 10, looks like I have competition for most damaged. Another hulking boy is picked in 11, along-side a minute girl who looks ever so familiar. Our Reaping is the "star" of the show; probably a mixture of our drunken mentor Haymitch, Katniss volunteering, and the salute to her. As if on cue, Haymitch stumbles in, bringing with him the stench of aged whiskey. His hair is matted to his forehead.

"I miss supper?" He groans out, before vomiting all over the 'luscious carpet' and falling face first into it; the pink proprietor of brain-pain hi-steps out, cackling at our messy predicament. Katniss sighs and walks towards him, but I stop her. I hoist his limp form up, nodding that I will clean him up. She nods in turn, before turning on her heels and walking away. I lug the deadweight Haymitch into his room and toss him into the giant bath. He groans and spews more. Great.

The next morning, I am awoken by a high-pitched, siren impersonating voice from the pits of hell. "Up, up, up! It's going to be a big, big, big day!" I groan and hoist myself out of the softest, most comfortable, surface I have ever slept on. Donning a pair of grey cargo pants and a black turtleneck, I pad my way out of my room and down the hall, passing a frustrated Effie, whom is toting a mug of coffee. I see Haymitch cackling and pouring himself a generous amount of alcohol. I slide into a seat, and Katniss, who follows behind, sits down as well. We are immediately served heaping platters of eggs and ham. In addition is some creamy brown liquid that is sweet and delicious. I down that as well.

"So, any tips on how to survive?" Katniss breaks the awkward silence that has presided over breakfast as of yet. Haymitch looks up through the bangs of hair hiding his eyes.

"Don't die." He says simply, grins at what he thinks is a joke, and reaches for his glass of brandy. I see Katniss's eyes flick toward the carving knife by her plate. Katniss speedily grabs the knife and swings downwards, slamming it into the wood between Haymitch's hand and the glass. At the same time I move quickly, snatching the glass away and, making a whipping motion, send the liquid flying it across the room, holding onto the glass. The alcohol splatters against the wooden panels, tan liquid dripping down to the carpet. I place the glass back in front of him. He glares at me. His muscles twitch. He slouches slightly, right shoulder dropping a half-inch. Surprisingly quickly, swings a right hook at me. However, I saw it coming. He was tensing to put extra force behind the blow. I lean back in my chair, the swing sailing past, splitting the air where my head was a second ago. As gravity pulls me backwards, I grab the leg of his chair and pull. Off guard, he flips backwards and clatters out of his chair. I roll sideways, away from him, and flip up off the ground. Haymitch slowly gets up, his eyes flicking back and forth between a wary me, and a stunned Katniss. "Well, did I get a pair of fighters this year?" He asks. "Line up, let's go." Katniss gets up, and stands next to me. "What can you do?" He asks Katniss.

"I'm pretty good with a bow, and I'm ok with knives." I know she's underselling herself, but I don't comment. Haymitch raises an eyebrow and holds out his hands, his meaning obvious. Katniss picks up her choice knife, and hurls it at the wall. The blade lodges between the cracks of two panels. I didn't know she was that good with a knife.

"If that was ok," Haymitch voices, "I don't want to be in your bad graces if you have a bow in your hands." He turns to me, then rubbing his shoulder, turns back. "Let's make a deal. If you promise to not interfere in my drinking, I will do my utmost to get one of you out of the arena." We nodded. "And, you have to not interfere with whatever the stylists tell you to do." Katniss grumbles, but does not complain. "Good, now we should be almost at the Capitol." As if on cue, we exit a dark tunnel and a beautiful sight meets my eyes. Surrounded by mountains, the sparkling glass city that is the capitol gleams in the morning sun like the roads in District 12 on a hot day. I openly gape at the wealth of the city as we pull up. The platform is filled with _things._ On a closer inspection, they are people, with such a diversity of surgical "enhancements", some look like cats, while other look like poultry. Some have different colored skins or even, tails? They all have one thing in common. They scream and jump up and down like deranged lunatics, waving at the train. I hesitantly wave back and the flip out, screaming and flopping around even more.

Effie prances back into the room. Giggling as she guides us out of the train and through the mob, Effie leads us down a fenced off walkway and into a huge building. Compared to them, Effie is normal and sane, both being applicable; sad as it is. The shrill menace of Effie pulls us along and deposits us into two different rooms. Mine is gleaming white. A white bench is in one corner, with a gown on it. Next to it is a basket with one word on it. _Clothes_. I sigh, and change into the gown, dropping all my clothes into a basket. A few minutes later, a purple woman with black stripes (what is wrong with this places sense of fashion) comes and leads me to a different room, where I am told to lie down on a white table. I am surrounded by three others, with similar fashion interests as Ms. Purple. A green man with gills is to my left, a leopard looking one on my right with a lady who, apart from her eight-inch-long eyelashes, who is mostly normal; that is, if you call chalk-white skin normal. They tell me to take off the gown. I hear a couple of gasps. Their eyes are riveted on me, or more specifically, the black and red splotches that cover my back and chest, one of the costs of that fire all those years ago. I had not been wearing a shirt when the fire destroyed my childhood, and the fire had branded me, leaving not only dreams to haunt me. They gathered and began bickering over what to do. They agreed that they couldn't do the usual spray and scrub. Instead, they decided to take the long approach. Covering my upper body with some pink foam, the inhuman stylists began cleaning my un-burned bits, namely my legs, feet, and head. In six hours, they were finally done, having prepared me to the best of their ability. I was told to don my robe and they left. Two minutes later a lady with a slight green tint to her skin, and longer than normal (though not ridiculously long) eyelashes, walked in.

"Hello Valen, my name is Portia and I am your stylist. First take this, Haymitch said you would need it." She handed me a small paper package. Ripping it open revealed a skin colored patch, about a square centimeter in size, it felt like there was a small disc embedded in the flexible patch. I looked at her. She tapped her throat. "Haymitch said to stick it on your throat." Curious, though I was, I followed her instructions, remembering Haymitch's earlier words. The moment it touched my skin, I felt a tingling sensation, then nothing. Portia continued like nothing had happened. "As for your costumes, Cinna, Katniss's stylist, and I agreed that dressing up in miner's fatigues or with coal dust is overdone. Tell me Valen, are you afraid of fire?"

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**There ya go. If you like review. I plan on continuing with this story all the way till the end of _Mockingjay_. *Gasp* I still gotta loooooong way to go, but, I'm feelin' good about this story. **

**Otiis Omnibus,**

**-Teenage Twi'lek**

**(P.S. It's latin for _freedom for all_ (technically leisure for all but _paxibus omnibus_ ain't as catchy :D))_  
_**


	3. Chapter 3

**Wassup ya'll! I got another chapter for you people to read. Kinda short...kinda depressing, but I wanted to get the Parade over with, and to update (almost) on time. Next chapter will be up hopefully in two weeks, and if I don't have the writing blues, will be up next Wednesday. Hope you enjoy it. **

**-Teenage Twi'lek**

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I stand by the two ebony horses that will pull District 12's chariot between the two grandstands of people, who will be screaming and shouting at us. I pat the massive beasts flank, calming myself down. Of all things to switch the themes of our costumes to, it has to be fire. Is it not enough that my family and home were taken by the demon that is mankind's "greatest" achievement. I am, thankfully, not the one to be lit on fire. That honor falls to Katniss. She walks toward me, wearing a body suit of a black fire-proof material. Or so the stylists say. My garb is different. I am clad in a similar body suit, but I also am wrapped in dozens of grey tattered rags.

"I have half the mind to call the stylists crazy." She states outright, as she reaches my side. I grin. She steps into the chariot, and I follow her. Cinna, a dark skinned man who is Katniss's stylist, walks up and hands her two metal tubes. From what he has told us, it is the fake fire that he invented. He presses a button, and a mist of clear liquid fans out, covering Katniss's clothes. He repeats the process, with the other one, on me. This canister is not the fake fire for Katniss. It's made especially for me. He lines us up in the chariot, one behind the other, about two feet separating us.

"When you leave the tunnel, I will light you. It will take ten seconds before it fully catches." Cinna speaks, in a deep tone. We nod; it's too late to argue. Ahead of us, District 1, clad in garbs inlaid with the most beautiful of gems, starts out of the tunnel, into the roaring applause of thousands of insanely-sadistic capitolites. My heart is pumping as the Districts depart the temporary safety of cover, leaving us as the last ones to go. As the horses begin to clip-clop down the street, Cinna leans over and lights Katniss. As we head out into the phenomenon that is the Parade, the flames begin to envelop Katniss, and a few _ohhs_ and _ahhs_ are directed our way. When eight seconds have elapsed, Katniss steps forward and spreads her arms out. Next second, she explodes in flames. Despite the enormity of the fireball, we are both fine.

When the flames hit me, however, a grey fog of smoke rolls off of the strips of grey material that is suspended in the air behind me; changing our chariot into a bonfire. We together, are fire and smoke, the bane of my childhood, that which took so much from me. Yet, despite that unescapable fact, I have never felt so powerful or safe. We ride through the crowd, which is currently chanting our names. We are the center of the Capitol's attention, drowning the other Districts in our flames. The flames reach hungrily for the sky, flickering behind us. As our horses slow to a canter, I see the other tributes looking on with either awe or ire. We have certainly made enemies. A man with white hair steps to a podium high above us. Raising a single hand, he quells the crowd. President Snow gives a short speech, none of which I hear. My attention is fixated on Katniss, who face is bathed in a serene orange glow. Suddenly, I am in awe of her ethereal beauty. I have noticed it before, but it never truly registered before. In the flickering flames, her face seemingly glows with joy, firelight dancing over her glistening skin.

Upon the end of the President's speech, we are ushered into a different building, where our stylists lather upon us praise. In addition to their bubbling joy, we receive several angry glares. The most prominent of which is delivered by a hulking boy from District 2. I scan my mind for his name and it comes to me. Cato, career from 2, the brawn; his partner is a lithe girl who is the brains, but certainly as dangerous. They will be hunting us immediately for out encroachment on their unofficial title as champions of the parade. Katniss and I are ushered into a building where we ride and elevator to the top most floor. The pink menace, who is unfortunately with us, jokingly calls it the penthouse. It is massive, at least twice the size of any house I have seen in 12, other than the mayor's. We are left to our own devices until dinner.

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**Soooooo...yeah...Valen and Katniss, sitting in a tree, K-I-S-S-I-N-G. Wow. I actually just wrote that. I am #prettypathetic. So, yay...Hunger Games!**

**-Teenage Twi'lek**

**P.S. That was an extremely LAME postscript, and this is an even more pointless one! **

**P.P.S. I just totally wasted even MORE of your (and my) 'precious' time... :D (D:)**

**P.P.P.S. (Lord of the Rings reference = violent time waster)**


	4. Chapter 4

**Okay...please don't hurt me...H-h-here is a n-n-new chapter. I know its 10:40 at night but I forgot it was a Wednesday. Wont happen again, pinky-promise. By the way, _120_ _views_! You are all AWESOME, love ya'll soooooo much. Couldn't keep writing without the love. Here ya go. Hope you like it.**

**Disclaimer: I wish I was Suzanne Collins...but I'm not. **

**P.S. Violence can be found in this chapter!**

**-Teenage Twi'lek**

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As night conquered the mountainous Capitol, Katniss and I sat down to a sizable dinner. Every food imaginable covered the table. I chow down, stuffing myself with delicacies never before seen. Katniss almost looks surprised but starts eating as well. The gargantuan meal is followed by and equally large dessert which none of us, save Effie, have room for. Effie gets up after the feast, and skips over to a black rectangle mounted on the wall. When she turns it on, my mouth drops, not even on the train were there televisions of such magnitude. Only our pink proprietor seems interested in watching the recaps of the Parade, and as such, I head to bed, nodding good-nights to Haymitch and Katniss.

I wake, according to the bedside clock, ten minutes before the "banshee" is supposed to wake us. I quickly take a shower, and dress in a red and black outfit given to us for training day. When I hear the clip-clop of Effie's shoes approaching my door. I open it, and give her a curt salute, before making my way downstairs. I don't eat much for breakfast, and Katniss and I take the elevator down to the training room. We are close to last in (I blame Effie. She tried to get us to watch the Parade recaps, again!), and a tall, dark-skinned woman steps up. She introduces herself as Atala, the head trainer. She explains each station and shoos us on our way. Immediately, the Careers of the first two districts head for the combat stations. I follow Katniss, to a less frequented station.

I walk up to the snares teacher, who seems overjoyed at actually having somebody to teach his craft. I get the inclination that most people see it as a useless trade. After an hour perfecting knots, I am somewhat good at this, but Katniss is much better. We wander from 'non-career station' to 'non-career' station, practicing survival techinques. A few stations later, the lunch bell rings, and we take a brief respite. Afterwards, Katniss and I part ways. I head for the spear station, and spy the Career's plying their trade. A kid named Marvel, from District 1, is the best, almost always hitting the bullseye. The mammoth of a tribute from 2 is nearly as good, but focuses on power as opposed to accuracy. The girls from 1 and 2 are less good, with the blonde, Glimmer I think, being the worst. Normally, District 4 is included in the Careers, but apparently not this year. I walk up and reach for a spear.

"Hey! What do you think you're doing?" Marvel yells, not only bringing attention to himself, but needlessly interrupting the general training process. I mime shooting a bow, minimizing the movement to mock him. The other careers laugh, but other tributes don't, out of fear of the Careers. "You can't practice here, we're already practicing. You can wait till were done, 12." He made to push me, his mistake. I grabbed his wrists, twisting to pull him off balance. My left leg swung out, catching him in the back of the knee and buckling him. As he fell, I spun his arm behind him, landing on top of his back with my knees on his collarbones. While pinning him to the floor, I pulled his arms diagonally towards the opposite hips. He begins to scream out, as his shoulders are nearly pulled out of their sockets. I see several peacekeepers heading this way. I let go, and roll off of him, getting up. I lock eyes with each member of the Careers, asking them to challenge me. Marvel gets up, pain and hatred filling his eyes.

I walk up to the spear rack and test one out, before throwing it. I hit the target, in the right shoulder. I throw in silence, the other Careers watching me. I am not great, but not awful. Sighing, I walk over to the knives. The short girl from 2 is there, Clove I think. She is flinging knives into the dead center of each target. I watch for a moment before she notices me.

She nods, "What you did to Marvel, asshole had it coming." I cock my head. The careers…divided? This could be advantageous. I pick up three knives, weighing them in my hand. The small brunette watches, her eyes flitting over me, assessing everything she sees. Without raising my arm, I flick the first underhand, catching a dummy in the knee. My second, I deign to flip directly up in the air. The third, I throw overhand, striking the target in the throat. I catch the second as I spin, releasing it in a smooth motion, watching as it buries itself in the face of the dummy. Clove's eyebrow is raised, reassessing me. I give her a Cheshire grin, before a thought comes to me. I spin on my heel and walk directly towards the dark skinned Atala. She frowns at my approach, but when I whisper something into her ear, her frown deepens. I spin once more and walk back to Clove. A glint in the rafters catches my eyes. I focus on that, not pausing my gate, or the direction I face. It is the minute girl from 11, twirling the serrated knife, the same one that the beast from Two had been hoarding earlier. I grin under my calm mask of apathy.

Suddenly three things happen. Cloves eyes widen, and she moves to take a half-step forward. I hear the clap of boots hitting the ground twenty feet away; the boots that only Peacekeeper's wear. The final thing is not definite, but I have learned to trust it. A sixth sense fills in the blank. Someone is behind me, swinging. I jump _backwards_, flipping over an arm that would have crashed into my skull. As I continue in my course, the form of Marvel enters my vision as everything seems to slow down. He is over extended, all of his weight planted on the leading foot. The Peacekeepers are sprinting to stop this fight. Pity they won't get here in time, for Marvel at least.

I land, and spin. My attacker stumbles as he follows after his wild haymaker, I wrap my left arm around his neck, and pull him backwards, slamming him into the ground. As I release him, my left elbow swings out, cracking across his nose. I am roughly hoisted up and off of him by white clad arms as the Peacekeepers separate us. The guards lift Marvel up, and I see the results of my handiwork. His nose is plastered across his face, a red mess. They quickly drag us out, and drag him in one direction, presumably to a doctor, and me to a bland grey door. One of the Peacekeepers enters a code into the keypad beside the door. They hurl me to the ground, and I hear the click of the lock behind me. I raise my head to survey my new confines. A shock of white hair and the stench of roses greet me.

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**Suspense. Suuuspense. Suuuuspense, suuuuuspense, suspense suspense suspense suspense. Just kidding. Any way, Valen went all _ninja-like_ in this one. Give ya three guesses on who the "mystery figure" is. So...yeah...HUNGER GAMES!**

**-Teenage Twi'lek**

**P.S. It is very hard to replicate the Jaws theme with words. Commas and periods are not endowed with the ability to intone suspense, so the word itself will have to suffice.**

**P.P.S Don't you #love the post scripts!**


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